


Split Second

by shanewantstobattle



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Content, Angst, Based more on the show, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geraskier, Gore, Heavy Angst, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lots of monsters, M/M, Major Character Injury, Memories, Multiple Timelines Happening At Once, Near Death Experiences, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Swearing, there's a lot of townsfolk and towns in this pls don't yell at me abt geography, timeline is a bit confusing but please bear with me it'll all make sense soon, uhhhhh idk how to tag, witchers being witchers, yeah i really have no idea how to tag this i'll probably update it as the story goes oops, you get to hear a lot of geralts thoughts you're welcome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23314810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanewantstobattle/pseuds/shanewantstobattle
Summary: Time is ever a fickle thing, sometimes moving all too fast, yet sometimes the grains of the hourglass slide along the figure with slow precision, allowing us to relive moments and memories as if it were the present.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, geraskier - Relationship
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Shane here :' ) I hope y'all enjoy the beginning of this fic, and thank you for being here and reading it! If you like it, don't forget to leave kudos or even a comment!
> 
> And remember : the prologue is only the beginning : )

_“_ **_Geralt!_ **” A voice rang sharply in the mountainous clearing, the shrill tone of the bard higher than any of the squawking birds muddling the area and overlooking the unfurling event before them. The cry was fierce in its desperation, his disposition only getting closer and closer as the sound echoed through the mountain range.

Said birds scattered as the bard ran, shoes scuffing up the loosely packed earth, creating nothing but trails of dust billowing behind Jaskier; a marker of sorts, something that even drowned out his lute, an item long since discarded in the alarming moment as the bard noticed the fallen Witcher.

Yet, no one was there to see such a trail. Well, minus the White Wolf, of course.

But even Geralt couldn’t see it, could barely even hear the bard’s frantic calls of his name ringing in the air; all he could hear was the blood pounding in his eardrums and leaking to vermilion against his peripheral - so much _red_ \- ; a citrine infused gaze casted straight skyward as his skull was resting like a pillow upon the dirt, hard and rough beneath his dirtying alabaster strands, which now scattered from his scalp like a silvery halo.

Chest rose and fall with ragged breaths, broken by sharp hisses and groans of pain. Pure _pain_ , radiating everywhere, it’s epicenter unknown to Geralt, the one who had even suffered the blows.

Hues flickered, eyelids fluttering in a weak attempt to stay open, to stay awake, to stay _alive_.

But Geralt was struggling.

Jaskier ran, his footsteps even skittering and faltering for a few feet as he nearly fell to the earth, scraping and slicing open his palms along the rough rocky terrain as he used it to cushion his near fall, also using it as an anchor point to push himself back up, legs all but flailing in an attempt to steady himself as he nearly somersaulted across the landing.

And yet — he kept running.

He _had_ to make it to Geralt. 

And the closer he got; the more red he saw. Staining the Witcher’s torn and tattered armor and layers, dripping from shredded edges upon the layers beneath, some even trickling upon exposed flesh, that too also being drowned by crimson; it was all consuming.

“No, no no _no no_ **_no_ ** _—”_ Jaskier was continually muttering as he got closer, his eyes blowing wide, brows furrowing into an anguished curve at the apex of his nose, worry harshly creasing his forehead. Words blurred into one another as he inched closer and closer to the Witcher, azure hues trying to take in all the harsh _red_.

It swam from the Witcher like a slow moving stream of molasses, thick and congealing from seemingly everywhere; staining his chest, claw marks having torn away at his armor, the sharp talon marks raggedly ripping apart the leather sewn fabric; coming from wounds Jaskier couldn’t even see or begin to imagine with just the state of his clothing, not even as his footsteps grinded to a halt and he fell to his knees beside Geralt, the baby blue of his pants immediately being stained with the tan and vermilion concoction of color swirling like molten lava across the earth: all from Geralt.

Hands, trembling and slow, moved to hover over the Witcher’s form, as if there was some magic he could perform to heal it all, to snap his fingers and make the White Wolf okay.

But he couldn’t.

And he knew that.

Swallowing the forming lump in his throat, Jaskier choked back the sob that was threatening to release from the back of his trachea, the crystalline tears welling in his hues almost spilling, harvesting at his ducts as his vision became a kaleidoscope of reality.

Jaskier closed his eyes then, forcing them shut as he shook his head, hands clenching into fists as they shook over the Witcher’s unmoving physique. Teeth gnashed together as Jaskier tried to _anchor_ himself, ground himself to get it together; he had to _help_ Geralt.

A shaky breath withered in an exhale through parted tiers as his eyes opened once more, the gathering saliva in his mouth once again being swallowed.

And Jaskier moved.

Arms retracted as he shrugged his jacket off, the suns’ nigh high rays reflecting off the light azure of the attire, Dandelion moving to press the cloth to the Witcher’s chest, pressing it against where he thought the wounds to be; yet he couldn’t know for certain. 

“Geralt!” He called once more as he had when he was coming up upon the clearing, yet it was softer now, albeit still frantic in it’s rigid register. He tried to get the Witcher’s attention, but even up close, it seemed fruitless.

After all, he barely had reacted when the jacket was pressed to his skin, the squelch of the satin meeting blood soaked flesh elicited only a low rumbling groan from the Witcher, and even that didn’t seem as metallic as always, the metal having lost its shine and sharpness.

Geralt’s gaze continued to waver, though never leaving its central viewpoint as he looked upon the sky, cloudless, dotted with nothing but the brilliant star of the sun, beaming down upon the dry terrain with warmth and heat.

_Warmth . . . ._

A groan came from Geralt, the sound almost _muffled_ , barricaded in his trachea, blocked by some unknown projectile; it was a gurgling sound, yet no blood - fresh anyway - seemed to be pouring from his lips.

An exasperated sigh suddenly heaved his chest, his hues blinking in quick synapses; as if he was waking from a slumber. Geralt’s gaze turned then, noticing the presence of the bard, could feel his hand pressing against his chest, the additional fabric against his chest conjuring the warmth from the sun, keeping it there.

Lips parted, as if Geralt wanted to say something to Jaskier; and he could feel the words brewing upon his palate, yet every time he tried to form the words, tried to force the syllables from his tiers: he couldn’t.

Lids wavered again, fluttering, pockets of darkness seeping into the Witcher’s vision.

_No. Jaskier._

Jaskier watched with frozen horror as Geralt’s conscious slipped along a treacherous slope, yet his weight upon Geralt’s chest didn’t let up, trying to cease the bleeding as much as he could.

“ _Geralt!”_

But again, words died before they could even reach Geralt’s tongue, sizzling out in the base of his throat.

_Jaskier?_

The warmth was all consuming then, blanketing the Witcher in comfort and solidarity. Safety. The darkness seeped further into his vision, clouding now the rest of the colors that his golden hues picked up on.

 _No_.

Said colors blurred, congealing together between the smaller and smaller windows of vision Geralt was allowed in between the fewer and fewer moments of his eyelids being open.

Until there was nothing left but a void, a dark salvation, rapturing conscious into a retrograde.

_Jaskier !_


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I just wanted to say thank you for reading this so far! I have so much planned and in store for you guys with this, and I'm so excited to continue with it; and I hope y'all stay along for the journey :' )
> 
> And as always, never trust all that you see, and enjoy the chapter!!

_Forgive me, Songbird._

“Thank you,” a pause, a grunt coming from the Witcher as he leaned back, sitting spine straight against the bed’s make-shift headboard, his bare back flexing along the material, muscles - lean and toned from years of training and exhausting his strength - straining then settling into relaxation. The words were gravelly, another inhale building in his chest as he continued, “For _everything_. Really.” Another exhaling grunt as his body settled, becoming virtually motionless.

Even despite the increase in stamina for Witchers, it was still possible to exert such limits. Especially over a longer period of time.

Geralt of Rivia looked at the woman on the other side of the bed with a half smile, the ghastly apparition of the gesture not entirely reaching his eyes, the golden hue shining brilliantly like the fire burning away around the huskily twilight - mooded room.

Sweat beaded across the expanse of his forehead alike human condensation, crawling down his flesh like crystalline droplets falling from the tips’ edge of a leaf. In the aftermath of the event, his body was engulfed in a heat flash, his chest heaving; a body’s attempt at a personal cooling system.

“A Witcher? Being _thankful_? My, you really are of a different breed.” The woman commented with a short laugh, her own breathlessness sounding in the loosely releasing note, her own physique adjusting; except she moved to turn to her side - facing Geralt of course -, a hand raising as she raised the sheet, covering the upper portion of her form.

Hazel hues sat upon Geralt, cascading chestnut tresses falling like a midnight waterfall, spilling upon the top of the covering sheet.

A grunt sounded from, Geralt; the note was amused, albeit a little incredulous.

“I wonder if you’d say that had this little, _excursion_ , never happened.” Still frontal facing, the Witcher’s gaze was the only thing that moved, eyes infused with the power and sharpness of citrine edging to the outskirts of his peripheral, looking at the woman sideways.

She snorts, a hand raising to rest her index finger beneath the base of her nose, “Perhaps different acts would precede you, but the ends would still be the same; courtesy follows you, Geralt.”

At that, he’s silent for a moment, mulling over her words. A hum, gravelly and aloof in it’s long-winded capacity, sounds from the base of his trachea, his gaze moving back to land upon the wall, gold watching gold as it flickered upon the apex of the lit torches, wavering and lapping at the free air, illuminating the expanse of the room.

 **_Courtesy_ ** _might not be the best word._

Geralt’s mind wanders then, the various times he had walked into a tavern, an inn, a temple, and all too well wavering and cautious eyes would land upon him, upon the medallion he always wore around his neck. The whispers, remarks, steps backward, hands moving to land upon the sheaths of swords.

He had seen it all. Time and time again.

_Rumors, speculation, the usual piles of horseshit people who know nothing better say._

_Time hasn’t changed anything. Everyone is as impious as always._

The all too many times a fight would break out from an outburst of a drunken patron and his posse of equally intoxicated friends, far too bored with their time their fists start to itch.

“-, ya know?” The woman’s words dragged Geralt’s mind back to the present, his brows furrowing, lids blinking a few times.

“Hm?” His gaze turned back to her, brows raising.

 _Fuck_.

However, the woman didn’t seem fazed, a small smile - softened enough to erase the worried creases across her forehead - coming to her lips. “Just rambling to myself, dear. They don’t make men like you anymore, is all.” Her gaze studied Geralt for a moment, a halo of light dancing across her hues, flickering like dew droplets upon freshly mowed grass on an early summer morning.

An exhale of relief left the Witcher at her words, a nod inclining his skull. “They quite literally _don’t_ , actually.” Geralt replied, a light grunt coming to his lips as he spoke; the sound didn’t have any negative friction, merely a thrumming sound to cushion his words, veiling them in a realizing momentum.

At this, the woman seemed surprised, neatly sculpted brows raising upon her brow bone. “Is that so? Why’s that?” Her head gently tipped to the side, the fingers at the blanket tugging it a bit as she adjusted, moving to directly face Geralt as best as she could; an upgrade from her previous position.

Head turning fully now, Geralt pondered this. “Times change.” Bare shoulders raised in a loose shrug, as if a physical indicator of wanting to change the subject.

“People better be privy then, of those who are left.” 

“Why? So they can start a manhunt against them?” A sardonic scoff came to his lips, which were pursing in an incredulous line, his head shaking a few times. “Not everyone is like you; people don’t take kindly to Witchers.”

“Which is funny, giving what your kind does for the folks.” A frown danced on her lips, the plump rosette color kiss swollen, the pout in the aftermath of the frown accentuating this.

“Tell _them_ that.” Geralt’s brows rose for a momentary interlude, gaze just steady upon her.

_Not like they’d listen. We’ve been trying for centuries._

A swell of confidence seemed to sweep through the woman in the moment, her form raising a few inches as he chin tipped skyward. “Maybe I will. For you, Geralt of Rivia.”

  
  


++++

  
  


The woman slouched upon the door frame a little while later, a leather pouch secured tightly in between her lithe digits, an index finger playing with the black string that fastened it, not even looking as the string clung to her finger, curving over it like static. She was watching from the room’s - rented and paid for courtesy of the Witcher, of course - entrance point as Geralt paid the renter, sharing a few words with him.

It was obvious the renter was pleased that the Witcher actually paid the debt, a brilliant smile even noticeable from the woman’s distance upon the man’s smug tiers. Though, she noted, he looked marginally disappointed, as if he was missing his chance to mess with a Witcher.

Once the man left, Geralt worked on adjusting the saddlebags upon his mare, Roach giving a small snort, head - and moving mane with it - giving a bit of a shake as Geralt started moving things.

“Easy girl,” the Witcher muttered, though the apparition of a smile appeared to his lips, leather glove bound fingers raising, moving to gently scratch at the mare’s ears and behind, continuing to then softly sift through her mane in a pausing beat.

Geralt made quick work of adjusting the bags, securing them to the mare’s saddle with expert digits, fingers nimble and the actions mindless.

It was only when he was done, turning back to the woman with a bit of a sweep of the obsidian cloak adorning his now armor covered shoulders, that a hand lifted from the jingling coins, fingers splaying in a bit of wave, the woman smiled at Geralt. “Take care, Geralt. May the road you’re on and the paths you take be blessed by Melitele.”

Her words were met with a nod - firm and rigid in posture, and a singular one in count - from the laconic Witcher, such a wordless gesture acknowledging her words. And there was no true answer, verbally anyway, to the woman’s parting remark, as Geralt exuded a low sounding grunt rumbling from the recess of his hollowing chest, the sound fluttering upon the night’s warming breeze, toned and tall physique moving to mount Roach, a hand landing against the sepia colored hide to tap a few times at her shoulder, reins secured in the free hand, leather digits grasping them like an ever tightening gyre.

And with a loud crack - piercing the near silence of the air - of the reins, off the White Wolf went.

  
**  
  


The woods were dark, the night’s blanket settling harshly upon the trees, the barks’ fully bloomed limbs shrouding any chance of moonlight to stream through. Though, some pockets were here and there, glittering through to the ground like a spotlight, highlighting the rough terrain.

Despite the rocky earth, the mare maneuvered easily, hooves still trotting along the densely packed earth without slowing, trotting away as if the time of day didn’t faze her.

_It never did, truly._

“So, what are we looking for, exactly?” A voice spoke up as they continued to move, his convivial voice striking through the night like the scattering rays of moonlight. 

Suddenly they emerged from the wood - the thick of it anyway - into a clearing, right where the moon was sharpest, illuminating the pair almost instantly.

The voice from before paused his walking steps for a few beats as his eyes blinked, adjusting to the sudden light, azure hues bright in the ghastly halo of the moon’s attention, chestnut tresses swinging this way and that as he craned his skull, looking upon the man on horseback, the studs of his armor glowing brilliantly. Looking up at the other proved to be a good visor, and so the bard kept moving in time with the mare’s hooves.

“Good question. Don’t know yet.” A grunt cushioned the mounted man’s words, golden gaze looking down upon the bard, the trajectory of his sight even, physique bobbing easily upon Roach’s back.

“We _don’t know yet_?” Jaskier asked, disbelief furrowing his brows and sharpening his questioning syllables as he looked at the Witcher warily, fingers nervously fumbling between one another, the harsh shadow of the night deepening the shadows on his visage, light being further blocked by the lute strapped across his back.

“No,” Geralt answered, a sigh at his lips. “Townsfolk reported a disturbance in the wood, said no one wanted to come here despite the good soil for planting; they’re too afraid to try to do anything for the sake of flattening the chance of causalities.” A pause, measured by the grunt at Geralt’s lips, “Some reported animals, eerie cries in the middle of the day; everything is a bit muddled. Hence why we’re here.”

Jaskier nodded to the other’s words, a sigh billowing from his lips. His head turned back to its’ natural positioning, 

And he immediately stopped in his tracks.

Geralt - nor Roach, for that matter - had noticed, until the bard’s voice pierced through the night air.

“Uh, G-geralt?” It was like a light switch had been flipped, the complete demeanor change of Jaskier evident, visage blanching as wide eyes stared at the far end of the clearing, which they had been coming up upon.

Geralt gently tugged the mare’s reins at Jaskier’s voice, his head tilting to look at Jaskier from out of his peripheral, immediately smelling the other’s fear, could all but hear the gulp of his swallow, adam’s apple bobbing along a drying stretched taut throat.

“What?” Geralt’s voice was like a scabbard being unsheathed, the eerie hiss behind his tone rigid, aloof like smooth metal, matching the gleaming silver upon his back.

Jaskier was speechless, a haunted look still about his countenance. Though, one of his hands raised, trembling digits pointing in a straight shot.

Swiveling his head back around on the pivot of his neck, brows furrowed as Geralt searched the night, only noticing what had spooked Jaskier when he was looking for it.

Under the canopy of the trees, shrouded by the elms and crawling vines alike a castle’s barricade, was a house, long since abandoned and reclaimed by nature. The wood seemed to be rotting even from this distance, window panes long since blown out - whether by weather or man was indeterminate - the vines and moss crawling their way in. But most of all, and presumably what had startled the bard, 

Was that the front door was blown wide open.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Shane here :' ) I hope y'all are enjoying this fic so far !! I know it's a bit slow going, but I hope the content is good nonetheless. And YES this is a double chapter feature (if you're reading this in the future I'm sorry BUT! this and chapter 3 are coming together so i hope you enjoy !)
> 
> And as always, all kudos, comments, and shares are appreciated <3 :' ) !!

A groan exuded from the Witcher, the sound heaving between his ribs, the expanding motion of his chest dwindling with each huffed exhale, like swamps’ smog holding it all into the ravine of his chest.

“ _ Fuck _ .” He cursed, heaving another grunt as he lugged the weight grasped by his fingers. Even if he couldn’t see his fingers - adorned by obsidian leather gloves, both for protection and an easier grip - he knew his grip upon the beast was white knuckled.

A Kikimora. 

Not only had it been rather large for its’ kind, the daunting night before him didn’t bode well as he had tried fighting the near night swallowed beast

But, a contract was a contract, and it had to be done.

And had  _ gotten _ done. If he was a bit worse for wear, but it was done.

Another tug and he felt the tear in his shoulder cry in pain, the splitting wound eliciting a hiss from the Witcher, who’s grip upon the monster faltered, nearly dropping the hulking beast. Still, he continued dragging it to where he had tied Roach near the outskirts of the wood, not wanting her to be  _ too _ close to the monster’s lurking area, lest she get skittish.

Or worse,  _ hurt. _

_ It’s just a Kikimora, what’s gotten into me? _

His thoughts were scolding, pressing like a hot iron on the inside rim of his skull, steaming his cranium with self doubt.

Perhaps he  _ had  _ slowed over the years, after everything with the Law of Surprise. With the dragon.

_ Jaskier _ .

Another tug. Another pull of his shoulder muscle. With a curse he dropped the beast, fingers immediately curling into fists; frustrated. A sigh slipped from his lips in a half pant, head moving to hang down, looming over the torso of the Kikimora.

_ If I can’t even do this, how can I do stronger beasts? Leshys, Noonwraiths, Griffins? _

A gloved hand rose, moving to slide down the Witcher’s visage - if trailing a bit of monster residue against his scruff complexion - his spine moving to straighten out, standing back up straight.

_ Maybe the whole, not sleeping thing is getting to me again. Surely there isn’t a Djinn anywhere near here, now would there be? _

Not that that quite worked for him the  _ first  _ time around. Though without Jaskier, without Yennefer,

_ No _ .

Still, the option was off the table.

There was only a moment’s pause to Geralt’s movements, a flicker of stationary relaxation in his unmoving steps. But, sometimes it was all time needed to completely turn everything on its head.

And well, the day wasn’t going good for Geralt in the first place.

The sky cried once, a moot rumbling forewarning , before the clouds parted, rain immediately drenching the earth in a sudden torrential downpour.

Geralt’s skull tipped upward in surprise, though all that resulted in was getting pelted with harsh, crystalline droplets that attacked his physique like mini pellets.

He flinched as he brought his head back down, spitting a bit of water that had formed at his tiers, a few lingering droplets mingling with the new ones clinging to his upper lip.

“Shit.” He spoke aloud to himself with an exasperated breath, head giving a few paces of a shake, the water clinging to his tresses already fleeing, following the trajectory of some of the others waiting seeping into the harshly packed earth.

And man, it was  _ cold _ . A bitter, frigid temperature that crawled deep down to the bones, hitting the marrow with an ice pick.

Geralt gave a shudder.

Bending back down, Geralt grasped the Kikimora in his hands, heaving one, two, three breaths before lifting the entire beast into his arms, cradling it between the cupping bridge of his grasp like it was his newly wedded bride. It wasn’t ideal by any standard, but he needed to get to through the rest of the path to Roach, and then find them shelter.

The town was half a day’s away, and there was no way the water logged beast and Witcher were going to saddle upon a soaked mare.

Geralt didn’t wish to put Roach through that.

The rest of the trek to the tied mare wasn’t long, but the rain made it much more unnecessarily dragged out, the weight of the beast upon Geralt’s arm water-logged, and a hell of a lot heavier than normal. By the time he had reached Roach he could feel his muscles tensing, flaring with the strain - not to mention the wound his left shoulder sustained - teeth gritted together in sheer concentration, trying not to let the freezing pellets of the rain hitting right into the exposed torn flesh get the better of him

Dropping the beast upon the ground with a damp  _ squelch _ , Geralt heaved a sigh, citrine infused gaze looking to Roach, who had moved a bit, trying to find shelter under the canopy of the water holding trees.

It wasn’t much, but she was smart.

“C’mon girl, we’re going to find shelter.” Geralt moved towards Roach with gentle steps, his hands outstretched towards her. A whinny sounds in retort, her head giving a shake, water flicking right off her mane, pelting Geralt with a secondary coat of water.

Though she gently trots towards the Witcher, her sepia colored skull moving to gently push against the palms presented to her, placing her forehead into the Witcher’s palm.

Even despite the rain, despite the wound and the dead beast behind him, Geralt offers the mare a smile, his palms moving to secure her visage, the pads of his thumb gentle smoothing over her fur, soothing her. “It’ll be okay girl,” he muttered, citrine gaze meeting a deep bronzed caramel one, her gaze unwavering from his.

They were only like that for a few passing moments, Geralt wanting to ensure she was a bit calmer than before, before he turned on the pivot of his heels, moving back to secure the Kikimora in his arms .

“We should see if we can find a clearing, or any houses.” Geralt spoke aloud - seemingly addressing Roach -, hips bending back down as he hauled the monster up, looking at the horse from his peripheral.

As if on cue, Roach snorts, hooves gently dancing in the mud congealing earth as she started making her way through the wood.

And Geralt followed.

++++

  
  


Geralt’s hand rested upon the door with a steadying grip, the white knuckles beneath his glove surely threatening to snap the old wood, which wheezed and whined under the pressure.

Jaskier hung a little ways back, mid-way between the abandoned house and where Geralt had told Roach to stay. His fingers nervously fiddled with one another, as if they were itching to begin plucking imaginary lute strings.

The Witcher peered into the house for a moment from his stance upon the building’s makeshift porch, the wood creaking under his weight as he craned his head forward, citrine hues scouring the seemingly one roomed cabin.

_ Abandoned _ .

“No one’s here Jaskier.” Geralt spoke, though the words were projected forward into the cabin rather than behind him to the bard.

Though, by the secondary creaking of the wood - Geralt’s only assumption being Jaskier followed him - the bard heard him.

“What’s this doing out here in the middle of the woods though?” he could feel Jaskier’s breath on his shoulder as the bard stood on his tippy toes, craning to look into the cabin as well.

Feeling the other’s breath, the  _ closeness _ of this: caused Geralt’s physique to tense, muscles to lock as he gazed at him from his golden peripheral.

“Numerous reasons,” Geralt answered with a stiff grunt, his shoulders giving a bit of a shrug as he furrowed his brows at the other. “Seems long abandoned though.”

Jaskier took the shrugging of Geralt’s shoulder to lean further in, hand grasping Geralt’s shoulder as not to fall.

Especially with this distance, Geralt could note the other smelled like,

_ Vanilla? _

Citrine hues blinked in bemusement as he stared at the blown wide hues of the bard, Jaskier’s full attention on observing the empty cabin, probably trying to eye any ghouls or monsters in the cabin.

From afar, anyway.

“Think this has to do with why the villagers won’t farm here?” Jaskier’s head tilted as he spoke, blue eyes giving a few gentle blinks as he panned his gaze from the darkened room to the Witcher once more.

Geralt could practically see the shards of dancing moonlight in the bard’s eyes from this distance, could almost make out the warp perception of himself in those glittering azure eyes. Could make out the gentle hairs dotting the rim of his chin, the small flyaways from his scalp and teasing the apex of plush lashes. The near  _ adoration _ in the other’s visage, glowing like a moonlit halo.

He was so  _ near _ .

There was a moment then, as Geralt paused, gently studying the bard. He couldn’t remember a time when they had been  _ this _ close together - minus the time when Jaskier had been cleaning monster guts off of him -, not even remembering it at Pavetta’s betrothal.

Then again,  _ time _ was never Geralt’s friend; it got muddled, mingling memories into one another, connecting seams of yarn of different colors.

_ As if there’s meaning to all of this. _

_ Stregobor would say this is  _ **Destiny’s** _ work. _

_ Fancy words for men too scared of their own choices _ .

A grunt, Geralt’s form moving from the moment, breaking away; his skin - even beneath the layers of clothing and armor - felt like it was aflame, like someone had set a blaze to him. He needed space, a breath. Hands clenched at his sides, a withered exhale captured between the barricade of his lips. “Must be. The soil around the house is plentiful, and rich. But the decrepit way the house is hanging up by the vines and moss clinging to it seems to be what’s stopping them.”

Jaskier blinked as the other moved, seemingly breaking out of the spell of the moment as well, a hitched breath finally finding its way through partially agape lips. “So what could be either living here or lurking the area that would spook them?”

Geralt took a step forward, gloved digits lining the wood upon the door frame, a low riding hum upon his palate, brows drawing together, trying to shake the buzzing aftermath of that rapturous moment. Head craning to look at the other - this time from a distance - Geralt’s brows rose, a slight tilt furthering the downward angle of the Witcher’s skull.

“Why don’t we find out?”


	4. Chapter 3

**Heat**. It was all consuming to the terrain, beating down upon the land like a controlled spotlight, causing sweat to bead on the skin like dots of paint leaking onto a canvas, flutters of leaves scattering upon the earth as it hardens, switching to fall and winter.

But today was worse than usual.

The heat was almost unbearable, scorching the earth like it was dusty lava, burning anyone who dared touch the soil with anything short of boots or gloves.

And for those in armor : it was much worse.

Well for  _ most  _ of the people in armor, anyway.

Geralt looked at the others who had gathered in the clearing - if the mouth of a ravine could be called a  _ clearing _ \- citrine hues giving a lethargic roll, an exasperated sigh at his lips.

“How are you not  _ cooking _ in that?” Jaskier whined beside him, one hand feathering his doublet, the fabric’s first few buttons already unfastened as the metal gently smacked the bard’s shoulder upon its flap towards the bard’s form, his other hand moving to fan air at his face.

Which probably wasn’t helping anything except blowing more hot air to his face.

But it was probably doing  _ something _ , so Geralt didn’t say anything. In regards to  _ that _ , anyway.

“Who says I’m not?” He countered, a darkened brow raising, his head craning to allow citrine hues to land upon the sweltering bard, who’s lute strap seemed to even be bothering him. “It’s heat, not much we can change. Unless you’d like to dip in the river in front of these soldiers.” Geralt added with a light chuckle, both brows now raising.

Though his words were a moderate tease, almost a playful challenge.

_ Kidding, of course. _

_ Though, knowing you, Jaskier, you might actually do it _ .

“You know, you act as if I have the shame to say no to a refreshing dip.” Cheeks were puffed out as Jaskier spoke, a pout forming to his sweat lined lips. Though, seemingly as the heat around him raised with the extra agitated effort, the facade shattered, shoulders instead slumping as arms dangled in the thin air.

Shaking his head several paces, Geralt let out a short laugh, the sound low and harvesting in the back of his throat. “That’s what I thought. We shouldn’t be here much longer.” 

_ Hopefully. _

_ Where were they? _

Geralt looked around, surveying the area. There was a slight distant noise in the light wood, a harsh beating against the loosely packed terrain. It was a rhythmic pounding, a constant booming thrum.

_ Like the sound of hooves _ .

Though, upon looking around, it seemed Jaskier wasn’t the only one suffering from the heat; the various soldiers scattered about - the proud insignia of Cintra emblazoned upon their stunning silver and gold dotted armors - seemed to try and take hide in what little shade the few scattered trees provided, some of them sitting by the river’s edge.

_ As if that would help. Looking at water won’t make you cool. _

_ Just like how looking at an enemy won’t kill them _ .

A hum sounded from Geralt as the pounding of hooves came closer, loud enough to perk up Jaskier’s attention, his bent over form - arms long since finding purchase upon bent knees, as if the bard could shrivel up to fit the space of the shade Roach’s shadow provided - spine straightening once more.

Louder still it came, the soldiers’ gazes raising as well, all of them moving to shuffle into a group nearby Geralt and Jaskier, pooling into a loose formation of sorts.

Sloppy, but one nonetheless.

_ Though, it shouldn’t be  _ expected _ ; with the fall of Cintra, who has the time for formalities? _

Jaskier straightened himself out as well, nimble lithe digits moving to redo his buttons with ease, a hand adjusting the lute - a gift from Filavandrel - strapped upon his back.

Geralt rolled his shoulders a bit, though his physique mostly remained the same; hues narrowed upon the mouth of the clearing, the treetops forming an entry way of sorts before scattering entirely.

A horse came.

Then two.

Before a group of horseback riders came into view; there were two at the upper flanks, leading the group, the distant and delayed sound of hooves’ ceasing suggesting a pair flanking the back as well.

_ Even with Nilfgaard nigh, Cintra remains to poise their expectations. _

_ Queen Calanthe would be proud _ .

One of the riders at the front of the group - one of the leading pair - dismounted first, hovering near the group still before they began to make their way toward the group by the river’s edge.

As they approached the rest of the group followed, the sound of metal clanging into metal sounding in the air, warring with the thrum of the river for disturbance of the settled air.

The closer the first soldier came, it was obvious  _ he _ was about to address Geralt’s group.

Though, he didn’t adorn armor - not even so much as a helmet -, the glittering obsidian cloak and robes adorning his form billowing with his graceful movements. They moved around the male with power, the golden accents to the fabric dancing in the scorching sun nigh in the sky, the violet strap pendant around his neck bobbing with his swallows.

Glittering hazel eyes cynically studied the crowd, taking each soldier in with a once over and a pursed lip. Such a gaze even met Jaskier and Geralt, a thoughtful hum coming from the robed man’s throat. After a moment - and silence from the soldiers, all of whom seemed to be uptight, spines so straight they might get stuck in such positions - ringed fingers clasped together in an audible clap, the sudden sound jolting the soldiers. A laugh came from the male, his head gently shaking in amusement, the sloshing darkened raven waves of his hair - a waterfall that didn’t end much before his hips , even with a good portion of it secured in a golden ribbon tied ponytail which flattered the darkness of his hair - moving with the movements.

He was elegantly dressed, power hiding behind those sharpened hues, residing within the curves of his angular, albeit convivial, visage. He was youthful too, strength in the sharp cheekbones, the chiseled edge of his jaw. Such features only seemed to accentuate the beauty of his breathable fabrics.

“You must be General Liakos.” One of the soldier's stutteringly spoke up, his nerves an obvious disposition to his respectfully sounding words. 

But he didn’t strike Geralt as an army general.

The male laughed again - an eerie lyrical sound, truly - head giving a few paces of a shake. “Nay, I’m afraid you’re mistaken about such a thing. Same family though, but if you’re looking for General Liakos, that, my dear soldiers, would be my  _ sister _ .”

_ Ah. As I thought.  _

“ _ Sister?” _ One of the other soldiers repeated, if with an incredulous scoff to his lips, as if the thought of another woman leading an army was crossing some line.

Geralt’s gaze shifted to the side, a grunt coming to his tiers; his nose partially scrunching in distaste as citrine infused eyes narrowingly glared at the soldier.

“Is there a problem with that?” The Witcher spoke up, causing a majority of said soldiers to flinch, the one under fire swallowing harshly, suddenly wishing he could backpedal his words.

“N-no, just uh,  _ surprising _ is all.” The soldier gave a sheepish smile, trying to brush the remnants of the situation under the rug.

If anything, it had the opposite effect.

“Given who our father was it shouldn’t be all that surprising.” The robed man spoke up - by deduction deeming him Nadav Liakos, the younger of the Liakos twins, if Geralt was correct - that sternness from before coming to his visage.

“Not,  _ surprising _ ,” the soldier chuckled, though it was obvious by the red coating his features, he was beyond mentally scolding himself, “I just expected  _ you,  _ to be the general is all. My apologies, it was a mere misunderstanding.” The soldier bowed, form trembling a bit.

“Is there a problem here boys?” A female voice spoke up from behind Nadav, capturing everyone’s attention.

It was obvious just from her voice alone that she was the commander; the voice was strong, authoritative, ringing clearly through the air like a strike of lightning. Not to mention the lyrical octave of her delivery was enchanting.

Given the reaction of the soldiers - and even Jaskier - who all turned rigid, it was needless to say she was intimidating.

_ Enthralling _ .   


Nadav stepped aside for a moment, clearing his throat a bit as he smiled at his sister, who all but beamed back at him.

Though returning her attention to the crowd before her was a different story, the rigidness solidifying back upon her features, sharpening all those clear - cut features.

Even if Geralt hadn’t known prior they were twins, with them standing side by side, it was almost painfully apparent. The woman too had the same chiseled features as her brother, the curve of her structure more feminine, a smoother - albeit still sharp - curve of her jaw, which sat tight upon her expression, the skin taut over the bones of her teeth. Lips, rosette and full, were pursed into an unamused line, only accentuating the glittering derisive sheen in her brilliant oceanic hues.

Gods, if there was one key feature to point about the woman; it was her  _ eyes _ .

Unlike her brother’s striking hazel ones, the General’s were of the bluest azure, carved from the most prominent topaz the earth had to offer, sparkling in the sweltering heat with kaleidoscope viridan and canary colors that resembled a crystalline oceanic surface. They were set beneath sculpted brows, the curving arch of them clean and smooth, giving her a rather clean appearance, which only further allowed her commanding features to stand out.

Her physique - although shorter than her twinly counterpart - was adorned in brilliant armor; the metal she wore differing than the men around her, her chest plate smooth and made entirely from gold, the bottom portion of it pleating off into obsidian layers that ended in diamond shaped edges, each layer outline in a halo of silver, able to distinct them from the abysmal fabric of her pants. Her shoulder pads and arms were plain silver, golden studs dotting them in rigid vertical line formations. Boots landed just above her knee the matching color of her pants almost blending entirely into them if it weren’t for the intricate and ornate golden swirls that decorated the shoes, swirling upward to the apex of the boot, a lion’s frontal head baring its teeth resting upon her knees.

A hand of hers rose - adorned in black leather gloves - moving to flick a few strands of her ravenette tresses that had fallen from her parted bangs to over her shoulder, the long waves cascading down her shoulders and back, almost rivaling her brother’s in length. Accept his were partially done in an updo, hers was not.

Even from this angle Geralt noticed the sword that jutted from the General’s left shoulder - from Geralt’s point of view it was his right - the  _ tip _ of the blade sparkling in the air.

_ The  _ tip?  _ Surely the light must be playing tricks. _

Though, upon further inspection, Geralt followed the angle of the sword downward, to find  _ yet another _ sword tip jutting from the adjacent side below the woman’s waist.

The Witcher was impressed, to say the least.

_ A double edged sword, wielded by a woman general. Would explain the gloves. I bet her hands are also bandaged beneath them. _

Which would make sense, Geralt reasoned with himself; her sword hilt’s being lost inside the sheath upon her back would mean in order to brandish it:

She’d had to grab the sword by the blade.

“Holy  _ shit _ .” Jaskier’s muttered cursing brought the Witcher back to the present, brows raising as a golden gaze flickered to the bard beside him. Seemed Jaskier had forgotten all about the sweltering heat, fingers white knuckling against the strap of his lute.

Geralt stayed silent, though he had an idea pop into his head.

Though, he couldn’t blame Jaskier.

His gaze rose back to the 

“Problem? O-oh not at all, G-general.” The soldier from before answered, muttering as he moved into a bow.

_ Trying to find your scraps of pride at her feet? Cute. _

The General tilted her head then, a ghost of a smile gracing her feature as a lyrical laugh sounded from her lips, the note mesmerizing, like the sound of a harp being plucked. Though, before she could speak, the rest of the soldiers followed in the man’s footsteps, all of them moving to bow: placing their right foot forward to bend and lean on, their left going entirely to the ground, hand to chest.

Her and Nadav exchanged a glance before another - albeit shorter - laugh left the woman. The hand that sifted through her hair before rose again, her hand waving off their gestures.

“At ease, men. We truly have no time to waste on pleasantries. War is ever afoot.” As she spoke her gaze slipped to Jaskier and Geralt, those dark sculpted brows of her raising. Jaskier swallowed harshly - an audible sound to Geralt - his spine straightening as he held his chin high for the General, Geralt merely leveling with her gaze, holding those oceanic eyes with ease.

She was powerful, he’d give her that.

“Apologies, General Liakos.” The soldier muttered, all of them raising again, the sound of metal clanking into metal a harsh grind in the ravine’s air.

“Semantics. Please call me Nevaeh. Nevaeh Liakos, of Rinde.” Even as she continued to speak, her gaze never left Geralt’s.

_ Rinde? _

_ No, that couldn’t be. What was a set of twins from Rinde doing leading armies in Cintra? _

The sharpness in their locked eyes wasn’t lost on Geralt.

_ Does she know? _

_ There’s no way. The Curse of the Black Sun was probably before her time. _

_ Yet - _

That gaze.

It was one he would never forget.

Something about it was unsettling to the Witcher, yet he still made no comment.

“We should get traveling to the next town, settle in for the night. I’m sure you all could use some,  _ relaxation _ .” Nevaeh finally broke her gaze with the Witcher as she turned slightly, addressing the soldiers, both whom had accompanied her, and those who had been waiting with Geralt.

With her turn Geralt could see the rest of her sword, the sheath adorning her back nothing but black leather strips fastened to a larger across the chest strip.

He  _ had _ been right: her sword was double edged - meaning there was no true hilt or top and bottom, both ends of the sword were purely sharpened blades - yet where they met in the middle was a makeshift middle hilt, a chunk of obsidian colored metal protecting it, both ends meeting to a center of a lions head - much like the ones that decorated her boots - the same dead, dull eyed mid snarl expression meeting Geralt’s gaze.

Even from this distance, there was a bit of a line in the center of the lion’s head, all but splitting it in two.

The question about that, however, was stuck to the back burner of his mind as he felt Jaskier nudge him.

“Do you know anything about them?” Jaskier’s whispered words were curious, his attention clearly distracted by the twins, who were speaking with individual groups of soldiers as the rest of them broke off to tend to the horses or bags.

Following Jaskier’s gaze, Geralt studied the twins as well, a hum forming to his lips before he turned, moving to start packing up his and Jaskier’s items onto Roach. “A bit. We actually met their father years back. Do you remember the guard who had let us in at Pavetta’s betrothal?”

Jaskier blinked, head craning as he finally gave Geralt his undivided attention. Brows knitted together in thought, cheek being sucked into his mouth a bit as his teeth gnawed on it. “Very hazy, but yea, I remember a General had let us in. Mentioned something about one of his men being sick?”

Geralt nodded. “Good you do remember. That man was General Quentin Liakos: their father.”

The bard’s eyes shot wide, head snapping to the side to look at Nadav and Neveah before swiftly swiveling back to Geralt, his head leaning in further. “That was their  _ father? _ ” He hissed to the Witcher, incredulous stretching his features into disbelief, curving his brows into an upturned furrow. 

When Geralt merely answered with an affirmative grunt, the sound clipped and curt in the back of the Witcher’s throat, Jaksier added, if with a bit of breathless realization, “I’ll be damned.”

Fastening the last strap of their bags securely to Roach’s saddle, Geralt turned back to Jaskier. “Exactly. So be respectful.”

Frowning, if with offense the other had to say that to Jaskier, the bard looked at the Witcher, fingers once again fumbling with his lute strap. “Right. And remind me again why we’re following Cintrans? Last time I checked Calanthe kind of, uh, kicked us out.”

Hand falling from Roach’s saddle and landing in a muffled smack to his upper thigh, a sigh brewed from the Witcher’s chest at the other’s question. His gaze wandered for a moment, moving to land back on the twins. He watched as Nevaeh turned then, meeting his gaze once more.

“If you haven’t forgotten, we couldn’t exactly leave these soldiers with whatever is in these woods. The contract, remember?” Geralt spoke gruffly, a frigid twinge in his syllables, though it didn’t seem directly aimed at Jaskier.

“Oh! Right,  _ that _ ,” Jaskier muttered, though his gaze rose to follow Geralt’s trajectory,

Just as Nevaeh and Nadav were approaching the pair.

  
  


++++

At Geralt’s words, Jaskier gave an obvious swallow, the nerves from before seemingly coming back to his physique and demeanor.

Though, upon the challenging look in Geralt’s gaze, it seemed the bard wasn’t about to back down.

He gave a nod, the singular gesture firm, secure in determination as Jaskier’s brows drew together at the heart of his brow bones.

Such an expression drew amusement from the Witcher, who only gently shook his head as he further entered the room, the door not budging from its’ welcoming - arguably  _ beckoning _ \- stance . 

It didn’t take long for Geralt to find an old candle, its wax stiff from years of unuse, the wick still proudly standing, held on by the hope it would be lit again.

_ Today must be its’ lucky day _ .

Geralt held a hand up towards it, muscle memory kicking in as he signed  _ Igni _ , the wick instantly catching and setting it ablaze; allowing for a small amount of firelight to dance across the room, illuminating for the pair what the decaying room had to offer in its crypt.

Despite the outside’s conditions - the worn wood, breaking and disintegrating from years of missed upkeep, the shattered windows and panes, moss becoming the new tenant. Not to mention the entirely open front door - the room itself seemed rather well put together.

_ As if someone was still living here _ .

Geralt hummed at the thought, form gently twirling a bit as he looked around, trying to find anything out of place.

“Looks rather well put together for something so noticeably abandoned.” Jaskier concluded - if aloud - as well, hos own gaze finding its mapping coordinates around the room. “Think anyone’s been here recently?” He added, bringing his gaze’s final destination to Geralt visage, brow marginally quirking skyward.

However, the Witcher didn’t meet his gaze, his investigation still ongoing as he looked about the room. “It doesn’t look like it. Nothing  _ human _ , anyway. A few animal tracks here and there, though by the state of the room and belongings, there was nothing valuable here for whatever critter deemed this a rest stop.” He spoke as he observed, a curious hum backing the stiff grunt of his metallic octave, syllables low and suave alike the unsheathing of a sword.

Both which laid upon the Witcher’s back.

_ Ever prepared _ .

Though, he couldn’t take credit for such a thing; Vesemir always drilled into his head about being prepared, about always being  _ ahead _ .

Jaskier hummed at that reply, his steps bringing him to the left corner of the room, hands moving as he was studying the various items in the room; vials - made from obsidian and turquoise glass, some empty, some not, though they all had the same dusty denominator in common - littering one of the corner’s tables, next to some candles, the wax sealed to the wooden surface, long since plastering itself there as if its existence depended on it; bound books - journals? They seemed to be custom made, hand crafted leather and sheepskin tight around the parchment - stacked and under the nook of the window, the books layered in a skewed manner. Yet one book laid in the center of the desk, laid unlatched as if someone had just been using it; and the broken quill beside it.

Hand outstretching, Jaskier grabbed the book - the fire snuffing out any of the lingering fear in his body - his lithe fingers gentle in their grasping of the leather, digits barely hovering over the parchment - crinkling, browned with age, yet still relatively stiff - as he turned the pages, trying to decipher who’s home this was.

Flipping through the pages, Jaskier managed to land upon the last one fairly quickly - the journal seemed to be fairly new when the owner had started its use - the curve of the feminine writing capturing Jaskier’s attention.

And it seemed her words wishes to be seen, to be  _ heard _ .

So Jaskier read them :

“ **_My Dearest Beloved,_ **

**_It seems Jaxon is rigid in his decision. I tried to convince him, to sway him so, but it seems it is without prevail, a fruitless encounter that left me hours shorter. His threats are always empty, but I can see the fire in his eyes, the way his fists clench. I worry for my own safety, and for yours as well. For the baby._ **

**_He can’t possibly think of actually bringing us strife, can he? And right before the wedding too. Alas, if this proves to be more than an empty threat I can have Gertrude brew some potions in her cottage off the main road, you know, the one by the blacksmith?_ **

**_I know your beliefs in the occult aren’t polished, but I entrust in her to protect us, to make sure we survive long enough to be wed, to never have to see this town again. To leave this wretched place with nothing but our own love upon our backs._ **

**_But most of all, remember I’ll always love you. You’ll remember that for me, won’t you? Oh, who am I kidding, I know you will.”_ **

And then the letter is signed,  _ Aiesha _ , the curve of the last a ending in a darkened ink splotch.

The words sent a shudder down Jaskier’s spine, breath hitching in his throat. What had happened to the poor couple that had lived here?

“G-geralt?” Jaskier called to the Witcher, his eyes still scanning the somber words now registering in his mind, a gruesome tale being unfolded before him. The bard felt dizzy all of sudden, form swaying gentle in place, as if a breeze was sweeping through him.

When the Witcher didn’t answer Jaskier raised his gaze, head swiveling as he looked for the Witcher; who was upon the opposite end of the cabin, a milky piece of mesh fabric between his digits. 

Sensing someone was looking towards him Geralt raised his own gaze, chest expanding as he noted the journal in the other’s hands.

_ It all added up. The veil, the torn dress. Old and dried trail of blood. _

The Witcher’s eyes were plastered to Jaskier’s as his brain ran through all the checkpoints, clicking each one with a finite spin of the gears in his mind, his words leaving no room for argumentation.

“It’s a Noonwraith.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Shane here :' ) I hope y'all are enjoying this fic so far !! I know I always say this, but I have a crippling fear my writing is boring or not good, but I always try hard with what I write; I want you guys to ENJOY it ( because I know / i / do, and i want you guys to too ) And i hope you guys are enjoying everything and mayhaps picking up on some things or clues ; ) i always have things planned and damned to my English professors for making me love adding little details and instances that mean something.
> 
> As always, comments, bookmarks and kudos are always encouraged and appreciated!! i love you guys and thank you for reading so far <3

Geralt could practically feel Jaskier stiffen as the twins paused in front of them, his breath hitching in his throat as Nevaeh looked at either of them. Her gaze was still that sharp azure topaz, the tension in the shards of her gaze tight, hardened upon whomever was under her chiseled guise.

“A Witcher and a bard; Geralt and Jaskier, respectively, I take it?” her words were quite starkly different than they were before, a more convivial aura to her speech, laid back from her commanding General tone. Her demeanor was still authoritative, the air never seeming to leave her, surrounding her in a perpetual state of a commanding smog; it was almost like it was _following_ her, encompassing her, _haunting_ in a regard, rather than something she walked with upon choice.

“You know our names?” Jaskier all but sputtered out, the off - guard bard taken further out of his comfort zone. His hands fell to either of his sides, fingers plucking at the bottom of his doublet, as if the off-handed gesture could straighten the fabric out, make himself look moderately presentable.

They would learn quickly, the twins always situated them like that. The never-ending tension that they reigned, a sense of being upon an edge, waiting for the tip of a shoe to be teetered off.

It was like a Liakos super power or something.

Their father held it as well, from what Geralt could remember. Even in his and Jaskier’s brief interlude of meeting the man, it was obvious even as a stand-in guard : his true position was never questioned, never thwarted from its post.

Seemed his children were the same way, even if they never turned out the way they were imagined to. Though plausible, the Witcher couldn’t recall a woman becoming a general in a family line, especially when a son was present.

But well, only time would tell.

“Of course I do; you know it wasn’t every day our father met such impeccable characters.” Nevaeh gave a bit of a laugh, though unlike from before, the sound was rather bittersweet, a twinge of forlornness lingering in it.

Geralt could only imagine what it must be like.

Losing a parent. Not for the sole purpose of an exchange, a handing off for some deal, for some _Law of Surprise_ , but genuinely losing them, plucked right from them by death’s claws, snatching heart, body, and soul like it was merely a flower in the ground, too frail to bloom on its own.

_Yet, here these two are. Standing tall and proud before us. Even if they weren’t powerful, their raised chins alone would prove their strength._

And Geralt? He respected them for it.

“Oh, right, your father, General Liakos. We’re sorry for your loss,” Jaskier replies, heaving a small and short clipped bow to the twins, a bit of a shifting somber shroud to his visage.

Nadav raises a hand - adorned with brilliant rings of all shapes and sizes, widths and stones, all glimmering in the scorching sun’s sight - a _tsk_ at his lips, “ Nonsense. No need for an apology, truly time has passed since then. It’s a reminder in how mortal we are sometimes, that even those of power can be knocked like the wind in our lungs.” The mage spoke with a breezy tone, sounding like pages fluttering gently between fingers, flicking one after another. Gentle, yet wise.

“Besides, it wasn’t like he was a pure man, either,” Nevaeh chimes in, a deep throttled hum in the base of her throat, a darkened shadow curling like a brief cloud over her features, “Time leaves no prisoners. We all succumb to it someday. So please, as much as your sorrow is heard and accepted, please do know such a formality isn’t mandatory.”

Their words seemed to ease the tension in Jaskier’s demeanor, his physique gently unclenching, limbs moving into a more lax position.

Geralt hummed at their words, citrine infused gaze studying the twins in turn. “Still, the time must’ve still been hard on you,” the Witcher speaks up now, the twins’ gazes moving to him.

After a moment Nevaeh’s drops, that shadow from before, the ever looming smog, clouding her entire visage as her parted hair curtains her features.

“I suppose so, yes. Though that pocket of time almost seems nonexistent at this point. Nadav went to the Brotherhood and I did nothing but train as a swordsman up until the day I took his post under Queen Calanthe. Days blend into one another when they’re all the same.” Her response was rather aloof, a cold edge returning to it; though it wasn’t in the commanding way, no holding of a room, but steely, as if pushing everyone away.

_Wonder what happened with them. Seems her bitterness is directed towards her father._

Such a thought was evicted almost as quickly as it arrived, the General continuing to speak, “Thank you for harboring my men for us. When we heard word of more Cintrans, we took the fastest route.” An inclination of her skull was in accompaniment, the edges of her lips curling up in the slightest way.

“We were passing through a tavern looking for a contract when we overheard them,” Geralt begins to reply, shoulders raising in a bit of a nonchalant shrug, hand moving to gesture idly as he spoke, “It was the least _we_ could do. I was there when Cintra fell, watched as Nilfgaard ravaged the city. Nilfgaard is known for leaving no prisoners. The fact that any of you are here is a miracle.”

“Or good placement timing,” Nevaeh replied, shaking her head to and fro a few paces. “We were in Sodden when news of Nilfgaard upon Cintra’s border began. Whether Queen Calanthe planned such or it was just good timing—,”

“I suppose we’ll never know,” Geralt cut in, jaw tightening a bit, a thrum vibrating upon his palate, the image of Cintra burning blazing in his mind’s eye. If only she had _listened_ , “Either way, however, you’re here and alive. That’s what matters. That a shred of Cintra still lives on. _That’s_ what Calanthe fought for.”

A soft chuckle, only akin to the sound of hummingbird’s wings being fluttered, came from Nevaeh, curious amusement alight on her fair complexion, “And here’s to think the great Geralt of Rivia isn’t a Witcher who was kicked from Cintra’s border after he claimed the Law of Surprise. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were a fan.”

“A fan?” Cue a marginal scoff from the Witcher, “Nay. Simply a man who can see behind the jewels and gold.”

“So what they say about Witchers isn’t true then? That life is all about monsters and gold?”

Nevaeh raises a brow to Geralt, the singular raising arch a silent challenge to the Witcher. One which he takes the bait on, heaving a gravelly laugh, the fishing rod’s string stuck to his sternum. “No. Our senses can do more than just draw out monsters.”

Geralt meets Nevaeh’s gaze with a sharp one of his own, the keenness in the locked gazes taut, like the final hair strands of a braided rope becoming cut and undone, ready to drop the anvil upon its’ head.

“I might have to admit I’m impressed then. Though, time can be spent upon such admiration later. We’re practically sitting ducks in this forest lest someone has eyes upon it.”

Nodding in agreement, Geralt takes a supplementary look around, flashing citrine gaze narrowing to see pass the trees. From a glance, it seems it’s clear. But the General makes a point.

“We should head back to town then, settle in for the night.” Nevaeh adds, her gaze bringing itself back to Geralt, as if she had been following his gaze in a sweep on her half of the forest’s hemisphere. Checking the _entirety_ of the area. Could never be **too** thorough.

“What about our contract?” Jaskier pipes up then, head craning a bit as he furrows a brow at the Witcher, sweat mixing with the worry in a glistening concoction. “Shouldn’t we take care of that first?”

Geralt merely grunts at the bard’s words, his own furrowing crease indenting his forehead in contemplation. Jaskier has a point. Besides, they were already here; it would save time.

“Contract?” Nadav repeats, adding the twinge of a question behind it. “If you have a monster contract by all means, please don’t let us keep you waiting and hindering daylight hours.” The mage gives a firm nod, as if trying to cushion and back up his words.

Nevaeh, on the other hand, had a different idea.

“Forget the contract for now. This blistering heat will do nothing but cause you to wobble upon your feet with a sword and impale yourself. Come back to town with us, set up camp, and enjoy some shade and ale. We can lend assistance as a thank you for your contribution to keeping Cintra alive.” Nevaeh’s tongue clicks, her arms raising, moving to situate themselves in a cross over her chest; the lion heads on either of her shoulder pads adjusting, their bared jaws and dull eyes staring at the traveling bard and Witcher pair with soulless cynicism.

“She’s right,” Geralt says, his gaze panning to Jaskier. “Besides, I’d rather wait until the sun goes down anyway; gives less chance to encounter passersby and for us to analyze the evidence. Not to mention,” Geralt pauses, tilting his head a bit. It may have been the sun’s rays playing tricks, the shadow of it creating an illusion, but nonetheless the picture of the edges of Geralt’s tiers curled ever so slightly, creating an acute angle with the rosette lips, “Making sure _you’re_ safe is of utmost importance. Can’t have the famous Jaskier dying upon a monster riddled forest.”

The Witcher’s words, though could be written off as _amiable,_ something spoken in the light of strangers, of a fleeting pass of rigid care the other had in his carcass, lying underneath the years of mounted ice laying riddled to his bones, had surprise registering across Jaskier’s features, a spark of something flashing in those oceanic hues of his. He gave a few blinks, the gears all but visible as they turned in his mind.

A smile graced his countenance in the next second, as if it hadn’t missed a beat. “The same can be said for you, Witcher. So why don’t we accompany these wonderful Cintrans and lay back for a bit? You _do_ know what relaxation is, don’t you?” Jaskier didn’t miss a beat to tease Geralt, a shimmering glint in his eyes, his entire demeanor drinking the moment in, reveling in its devouring.

Nevaeh and Nadav exchange a glance, a one of knowing, suspicion in its brewing birth, a smirk coming to fruition across the General’s tiers in the following second, a light-hearted _humph_ sounding upon her exhale in the observation of it all.

“Well, seems it’s settled then,” arms slipped from their coiling perch across her chest as hands felt down her arms. They were like snakes along the other of limbs, moving as palms connected at the end in a booming clap, the soldiers’ attentions immediately snapping to the woman.

“Boys,” she purred the beginning of the booming command, that authoritative smog beginning to infiltrate into her vocal cords, tight and taut to her throat, “Prepare the horses and yourselves. There’s a town about a mile out, we shall head there and set up camp for the night. I think a night of breathing will do all of us good,” her oceanic gaze swept over the growing crowd of the handful of soldiers that began to swarm around her. Nodding in unison, the sound of affirmative grunts came from the soldiers, who in the next moment began to adhere to her order.

 _Funny, how the prospect of ale and a night’s rest woos a man_.

Funny because, not shy of an hour ago were said men all but loathing at the thought of following Nevaeh’s orders. Some, anyway.

_Perhaps they’ll come around when they truly see her potential. Until then, well, they’ll run around like chickens with their heads clean off their shoulders, blind to the strength in front of them._

Strength, it seemed, that wasn’t lost upon Geralt and Jaskier, who watched the scrambling soldiers pack up and ready the horses, soft conversation billowing upon the clearing’s air.

“Seems they’ve lightened up,” Jaskier commented with a snort, brows quirked heavenward beneath sweat set strands of hair which angled upon his visage, fingers gently drumming along his lutes’ strap.

“It’s because they know if they abide by it, they’ll be getting ale later. Not to mention getting out of the armor. And heat.” Nevaeh watched the soldiers as she snorted her own words, her head giving a few paces of a shake. “People sometimes aren’t as rigid in their thoughts as they’d like to think, swayed by a moments’ notice.”

Nadav glanced to her with a worried furrow of his brows, a light frown tugging his lips downwards, a purse of brotherly worry upon his visage. “At least they listened.” He commented, the forlornness of his expression sculpting into a silver-lined ghost of a smile, trying to lift the air.

“For now,” Nevaeh sighed, a glove adorned hand raising, moving to thread her fingers through the wavy ravenette tresses, waves of obsidian moving silkily through the leather clad digits. The strands glittered brilliantly in the blaring sun, the scorching heat for sure making the strands hot to the touch, scorching like obsidian lava plumes cascading down both the general’s and the mage’s shoulders, “but not the point,” she continued,

“Whether they listen to me or not is their own accord. I can not force them to do as I say, but such will not stop me speaking.” Her gaze stole a glance to her peripheral, landing upon the Witcher. “Even if I have no one behind me, it will not stop me from entering the battlefield, even if I have to do it alone.” Nevaeh’s gaze turned piercing, narrowed upon the stone edge of a sharpening blade.

“I took an oath for Cintra, and I swore an oath to do what I could to protect it. So long as Princess Cirilla and Cahir are out there, I will not stop. Cirilla will be brought to safety and the Nilfgaardian general will be brought to his knees, even if it’s the last thing I do.” Words were ended with a light sigh, which billowed from parted lips with exasperation, lion clad shoulders bobbing with her body’s effort, as if the pent up bravado was exhausted, finding its way out through her mouth, honing to sharpen along her dual bladed sword.

“General.” A soldier’s voice cut through the moment abruptly, Nevaeh’s attention snapping frontal again, skull raising as she landed her eyes’ trajectory upon the fellow, his hands nervously out in front of him, as if he couldn’t reach the woman’s gaze.

Instead, he looked back at Jaskier and Geralt, swallowing thickly.

“Everything is ready on your word,” the soldier concluded, offering a half bow to Nevaeh, who nodded in return.

“Excellent. Mount your horses gentlemen, two by two if you have to, we shouldn’t waste daylight standing here and cooking inside our armor. I’m sure,” she gave a smile, a full - berthed gesture as the sun shone upon her visage, brightening up her oceanic hues, evolving them into the opaque of ice, “You all wish for a drink, no?,” the smile continued in its trek further upon Nevaeh’s rosette lips, exposing the dimple digging into her right cheek.

Her hands rose then, one landing upon her hip triumphantly, the other shooting towards the sky. There was a victorious mask shrouding her features then, glinting across her face like a blood moon across a sand riddled path; it was a haunting look, surely, only embedding further into the two accompanying men not to want to be in the business end of either of her swords’ blades, “ We march ever onward, my men, _for_ **_Cintra_** _!”_

  
  


*****

  
  


The trotting of hooves was hypnotic, a lulling lullaby as the group made their way into upon the town, the loosely packed earth of the pathways kicking up dust, a natural dusty fog creating a shroud of mystery around them, allowing them to slip into the town in the limelight of the afternoon sunlight.

Nevaeh and Nadav were at the front of the group, their mares whinnying as the pair tugged on their reins, slowing the horses’ movements to a casual gallop, decrescendoing them to a casual gait as the town thickened on their path towards the town’s center.

Geralt - accompanied by Jaskier behind him as they both saddled Roach - was behind the leading twins, surrounded dutifully by the various soldiers, some of them doubling up on the horses, little bits of conversation being heard.

“Up ahead,” Nevaeh’s voice broke through the humming air with a slice of a sword, her head gently craning a bit to steal a vague glance behind her, “there’s a stable. We’ll dismount there and locate a tavern for now. Nadav and I can find an inn for all of us.” Not that such would be easy - with their numbers - but Nevaeh had faith the money involved in it would sweeten the deal for whoever allowed for the group to stay in their establishment for the evening.

The soldier's didn’t verbally agree, merely abiding by her command in their continuing to follow her path, the trajectory and destination coming up with swift ease. Of course, it was Nevaeh and Nadav who reach the stable first, Nadav being the first to dismount as he moved to allow the other horses to come in, making sure everything went smoothly. Nevaeh, meanwhile, merely turned, glancing to Geralt and Jaskier as Geralt steered Roach beside Tinker, the horses meeting gazes for a second. Tinker - Nevaeh’s ravenette haired steed - giving a snort before shaking his head.

A brow rose from the General but she made no comment as she observed the rest of the group, making sure all the soldiers got into the stable. It was only when no more soldiers were entering the canopied building did Nevaeh dismount from her horse, half jumping from her saddle with a graceful _thump_ upon the wooden planks, gloved digits brushing at her pants and flicking at her armor.

“How are we all doing?” She offered the question in casual speculation, glancing at everyone in turn.

“Ready to hunker down for the night. And drink!” One of the soldiers spoke up, followed by a low wave of moderate cheering from his fellow armored men. Such cheering was met with amusement from Nevaeh, a laugh sounding from her lips.

“As I thought. Why don’t you follow Geralt and Jaskier into the tavern while Nadav and I secure shelter for the night? Shed your armor men, if anything goes south, well —,” she paused, clicking her tongue, her hand raising as she expertly felt along the blade poking out from behind her shoulder, “I’ll take care of it. At ease.”

The men merely nodded to her words, sighs of relief flooding into the stable’s staling air, the sounds of metal being discarded and removed clinking into the air, brewing along the cauldron of teasing words and playful hands shoving one another. Meanwhile Nevaeh turned, bringing a softened gaze to Jaskier and Geralt.

“I do hope you don’t mind me placing my men in your care once again. It won’t be for long this time, just easier to not have an entire group enter a building; doesn’t exactly give the right kind of vibe.” Her words were more casual now, her rigidness depleting a bit from her demeanor, topaz optics softer, the glean to them wise, but laid back.

Geralt merely shook his head, a hand raising as he began to speak, “Worry not. We’ll make sure they all stay in one piece for the time being.”

Grateful, Nevaeh nodded. “The gesture is appreciated. I suppose this solidifies our assistance upon your contract then. If not my men and I, Nadav and I will surely lend aid”. Though, such words weren’t given a room for protest as she nodded once, footsteps in motion as she passed the pair, exiting the stable first, Nadav following in her footsteps a few beats after, a gaze and a silent nod towards Geralt and Jaskier in his wake.

Jaskier turned to Geralt then, his physique gently wavering on his feet, nervously swaying to and fro. Glancing towards the bard, Geralt offered a raised brow towards the other, a citrine gaze locking in peripheral positioning.

“Yes, Jaskier?” Geralt took the initiative to speak, beating around the bush while the soldiers were unpacking a bit.

Jaskier didn’t answer at first, merely giving a few blinks and a light thrum of a hum, fingers drumming along the strap of his lute. Though when his brain has registered Geralt spoke his attention piqued, gaze raising to meet Geralt’s.

A laugh shuddered from him for a moment, a hand raising as it searched at the back of his head. Jaskier’s demeanor was a bit skittish, nervous and light, as if he was ready to flee at any moment. Like he was walking on eggshells.

It was a demeanor that had plagued Jaskier as of late, growing more noticeable in the last weeks. “Did I say something?”

His words confused the Witcher for a moment, who fully turned now towards the bard, arms raising to lock together across his chest. “No, but it looked like you had the desire to,” his words were fluttering upon worry in his metallic register, clicking through pursed tiers.

Blinking a few more times, Jaskier shook his head. “Oh! I was actually just thinking of a song in my head; you know, having the little bit of nature around us is _inspiring_ at times.” Jaskier flashed a smile to Geralt, a hand raising as it landed to the Witcher’s armor padded shoulder. Lending a few pats to it, the bard turned his posture towards the soldiers, whose demeanors were becoming more and more rambunctious as time ensued.

“Come on, why don’t we lay back and _relax,_ drink some ale?” His gaze flickered back to Geralt for only a moment before he took off into the center of the stable, chin raising as his fingers adjusted the strap of his lute, as if readying it to play.

_A song? I wonder what inspired you, songbird._

_It’s been a while since you’ve graced the world with one of your songs._

_I should ask you._

_It’s not hard, asking questions. Just a simple open of the mouth, a fluttering of the vocal cords as a tongue and muscles forms sounds that somehow translate to words._

_I used to ask questions all the time. Visenna always answered them, though I wonder if she truly ever heard them._

_I should ask._

**_Why didn’t I?_ **

But the question is long since nailed to its coffin, long since buried upon its grave, somewhere six feet under; six feet under other memories, other questions, being sat upon by the throne of pride.

A dismaying hum came to Geralt’s lips, his citrine infused eyes looking upon Jaskier striking up conversation with the soldiers like it was nothing, their laughter spilling and filling the stable with boisterous ease. Geralt looked upon such a sight with nigh desire, as if he too wished he could be right beside Jaskier, right in the throng of it all, enjoying himself.

_Things after the dragon haven’t been the same. It’s been what? Weeks? Months?_

_I know the argument was my fault, I do. Even after countless conversations, there feels like there’s a wedge in it all._

_This_ **_ache—_**

 _“_ Geralt, you coming?” Jaskier’s voice broke through Geralt’s thoughts like a persistent sword, poking through the bottom of a sheath as it fights for an exit.

Distracted eyes blink in rapid succession a few times before Geralt nods, his laconic nature coiling around him, pressing a damning finger to his windpipe, slaying any chance of speaking he had.

Lost in the turning of the soldiers, Jaskier’s laughter joins their own, the Cintrans enjoying the stories Jaskier begins to weave. Geralt’s footsteps move, bringing him to the front of the crowd, being the first to slip from the stable.

Jaskier, even surrounded by the convivial men, watches Geralt leave, a frown beginning to twitch at his tiers, brows furrowing beneath the flurry of bangs sweatpants across his forehead. A hand raises, moving to fluff it a bit, the forlorn expression gone just as quickly as it had come, lest one of the soldiers question it. Though, luckily, none of them notice, all of them all but moving in sync, heading towards the stables’ double wide doors.

Even without their silver and golden armor, it was still obvious to any onlookers the men were Cintrans, and soldiers at that; some of them adorned the kingdom’s crest upon their undershirts like a flag, flying proudly in the air, even despite the fact Cintra was currently on its’ knees, the last shred of it entering the tavern right now, behind a Witcher.

The same Witcher who gained looks as he entered the establishment, patrons looking, some hitting their friends or company and nodding their heads - as if that somehow played fairer than pointing a direct finger - in his direction, murmurs rippling through the building.

Geralt gave a low grunt, trying to brush it off, gaze instead sweeping to find the bar’s magnolia painted tabletop.

Alas, his vision was obstructed as a man, clicking his tongue, stood in the trajectorys’ way. The man was stout, muscles packed and piled densely upon his high height. Mousy brown hair was collected in a bun-like clump at the apex of his skull, the greasy strands all but solidified into place. His visage - a dirt covered ivory complexion - wasn’t much better for wear: gray eyes set narrowedly upon suspicion under unkempt brows, the arches lost somewhere along the scattering hairs, crinkling with the heavy-set indents that furrowed the man’s displeased expression.

“A Witcher, ey?” His voice rolled thick with an accent, a deep gravelly thrum to his voice, like the shaking of a rattlesnake’s tail. It hissed and seethed as the man stood like a sentry point between the Witcher and the bartender, who watched with wary caution.

“Can I help you?” Geralt impassively replied, citrine gaze unwavering from the man’s stoic appearance.

“Ye can help us by leavin’.” The man scoffed, lips curling into a proud smirk at his remark, the curl continuing as it uplifted into a sneer. A shifting of his posture from one foot to the other indicated he was itching for a fight, an instigated altercation.

Unfortunately for him, however, Geralt wasn’t about to enter a petty squabble. All he wanted to do was sit and be out of the blistering heat. To wash away whatever thoughts were beginning to crawl inside his mind, taking claim to his consciousness.

Though, life never went the way it should’ve, did it?

_Fuck._

“It’s a public establishment, and I didn’t quite enter with a sword swinging, I don’t quite see the problem here.” Unwavering still, was Geralt.

The man’s pursing smirk grew in size as he cackled, his whole chest heaving with the overabundant sound, the boisterous weight of it spilling into the empty cracks and crevices of the room’s air. “Sure ye’ didn’t, but yer kind isn’t _wanted_ ‘round these parts. Shall I repeat myself, or did ya get that this time?”

Jaskier and the soldiers watched with quiet resignation, gazes locked upon the Witcher, panning every now and again to land upon the opposing man; though they never lingered close for long, lest one of them instigated his anger further.

It was Geralt’s turn to scoff, a metallic snorting sound coming from his flaring nostrils, dark brows furrowing at the apex of a defined brow bone. A few more men got up from their seats to fill in behind the spokesperson of the bar, the tension thickening around muscular physiques.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news fellas, but I mean no harm. I merely wish for a drink with these soldiers who have traveled a long way from their home. A home, might I add, with hastily induced fever, that was destroyed by Nilfgaard. So if you’d have an ounce of respect—,”

His words were cut off by a sharp cackle of a laugh the stout man’s arms breaking from their homemade bridged perch across his chest, hands instead moving to meet together knuckle to knuckle, the distinct sounds of sharp _cracks_ breaking the air as the man popped his knuckles.

“Oh, look at this, boys. The Witcher’re thinks he’s _complacent_ , like he’s one of te’ good guys!,” another thunderous laugh fills the space, spiteful amusement contorting the man’s features.

“How about this, _Butcher_ , we can meet our swords or we can gladly carry you out piece by piece.” Proud of his words the man turned a bit to gain the approval form the men swarming him, a few cheers - some calling “You tell ‘im Alard!” - and claps to the man’s broad shoulders ensued for a moment, before Alard turned back to Geralt, waiting for an answer.

A sound akin to a tongue clicking entered the tavern, though it was plain obvious that it did not indeed come from Geralt. Patrons become furrowed with bewilderment as they scanned the crowd, wondering who would throw themselves to the wolves and enter the ring, when a few shuffles were heard, the crowd of Cintran soldiers behind Geralt parted a bit, their gazes falling to the woman entering the makeshift clearing.

“How about this, brute, you can swallow your words or you can swallow my sword.” Nevaeh’s words were sharp and curt upon her palate, those brilliant topaz hues mercilessly landing upon Alard with an annoyed disposition. Her booted steps scuffed and ceased as her form stood beside Geralt, and even despite the height difference, Nevaeh quite made up for it in her intimidating aura.

Even still, upon her hand was the sword Geralt had noticed earlier, her gloved hand capturing the silently roaring lion’s head at the middle of the double ended hilt, either sword blade end jutting out, the weapon fully unsheathed as it sat between her fingers.

But, it was obvious the sword was glinting in the low light of the tavern’s flickering candles, the makeshift twilight outlining the silver blades like a halo. The light danced upon the General with hellish haze, harshly lighting the gold upon her breastplate, the lion heads upon either shoulder enraptured by a plume of lava, setting ablaze to those dull eyes. Her hair was akin to obsidian fire, the ravenette waves becoming thicker with the offput light, creating the look of a magnificent beast.

Nevaeh’s jaw set as a hush fell over the tavern suddenly, the sound of a crumb falling to the floor being able to be heard. A cough here and there, the thick of a swallow entering from behind a nervous Adam’s Apple. Looking at the men before them, the General took a few steps forward, surpassing Geralt as her form fully came into view.

Alard tilted his head downward a bit as he studied the General, a smog of fear beginning to pool in his slowly widening hues. All that boisterous talk and laughter from before had disintegrated, evaporating as he took in the woman, and the crests she adorned.

“G-General Liakos.” His voice cracked a bit as he spoke, a cough ensuing after the fact as he cleared his throat. He was surprised, to say the least, but that spiteful flare didn’t retreat from his hues, even upon Nevaeh’s appearance and words.

The soldiers exchanged a glance between one another, looking to Nadav as he quietly glided to rest beside them, hands stationed behind him as they clasped at the base of his spine. Jaskier turned to the other twin, moving his head towards him to keep his voice quiet, a hand raising to barricade any last chances of anyone else hearing him.

“Do you two know them?” Jaskier’s gaze looked up, meeting those sharp hazel ones of the mage.

Nadav shook his head, the gesture curt, barely noticeable as his long waved hair barely moved. “No. But we’re close enough to Rinde that it’s not a surprise people would recognize my family. My father was quite the celebrity of sorts whenever he would visit from Cintra.” Nadav spoke lowly as well, words an alluring hum as he studied Jaksier’s worry riddled visage. Though, Nadav shared the same worry for the pair in front of them.

An intrigue sound vibrated in the back of Jaskier’s throat, his gaze sweeping back to the scene unfurling before them, a twinkle of awe in his hues. Though, such a thing couldn’t completely extinguish the worry settling there. For Nevaeh, but for Geralt as well.

Even after everything, he still cared for the Witcher.

“I expect more of you men. If you wish to mingle with others, you should treat _all_ with respect. Geralt has done nothing wrong, yet you treat him as if he is lesser than you. Yet at the yelp of a monster at the edge of town, you all run to him with your tails between your legs. If you can’t even show common courtesy, I won’t feel regret at knocking you all down a peg or two.” Her voice rang sharply in the tavern, piercing through the tension like an axe to wood as it splinters in half. Words were authoritative and holding an air of command, the twinge of anger heating them up underneath it like a burner upon a low blaze.

“Now. Go back to your celebrations and drinks. Do make sure to keep yourselves in check, or I’ll gladly do it for you,” Naveah takes a step forward, her chin raising a bit, an arched brow sliding skyward, “Do I make myself clear?”

Silence followed her words for a moment, before Alard let out a strangled noise, the gargling squeak sounding like a mixture between a scoff and a squeak.

Both of Nevaeh’s brows rose then, a few blinks encouraging the man to speak.

And yet, he didn’t, just continued staring down the General, the gears turning in his skull almost noticeable, as if he was deciding how he wanted this to end. The General’s grip upon the sword tightened, her patience clearly wearing thin.

Alard’s head tilts then, a full blown laugh bubbling up to his lips then, that aloof aura gathering itself together once more. He leaned forward a bit, skull closing the distance between him and Nevaeh a bit.

“Ye know, Miss Nevaeh, yer father was ever the dashing fellow. Takes a lot for a man to work under the ruse of Queen Calanthe. Though, yer dashing father isn’t here now, is ‘e?,” Alard’s words were nothing short of mockery, a feigned click of dismay sounding upon his palate, “Unfortunate for ye, truly. ‘Cause you see, little lady, I don’t take orders from the likes of ya, or ye Witcher friend.” The grimy smirk upon the man’s visage widened then, as if his disheveled demeanor ranked any higher points than the esteemed General before him.

Nevaeh didn’t say anything for a moment. Then two. The crowd watched with tense anticipation, wondering who was going to say what next. Geralt watched and listened, a surge of anger beginning to heat in his abdomen. It was obvious what Alard’s words implied, not having the full guts to fully say anything. He could sense the uncomfortableness of the soldiers behind him as well, the light sound of shuffling entering his ear canal, a few hushed whispers between them, the low drawl of Nadav’s voice reassuring them.

“ _Trust her,”_ Geralt could hear Nadav humming, voice confident.

 _Trust her_.

The Witcher’s hand moved then, slowly, nimbly, towards his sword despite Nadav’s words. He’d draw it and blood if he had to. A back-up plan. Last resort if all else failed. He wasn’t one to enter such a mundane squabble, to be irked by the words of townsfolk who thought poking a Witcher was a game. But there was a time where a fight had to be picked. Especially since he now wasn’t the only subject of the taunts.

Though, such an endeavor wasn’t necessary as Alard moved first.

His hand rose, moving as if its trajectory was to land upon Nevaeh’s chin, a gesture otherwise seen as endearing being executed in a demeaning tone now.

Though — his hand never made it to grasp at the General’s chin.

She moved, and she moved swiftly. 

It was a blur at first, though Geralt could follow it. The hand that had moved towards her - Alard’s left - was grasped by a leather clad hand, fingers engulfing the man’s knuckles and giving a squeeze - eliciting a bit of a popping _crunch_ \- Nevaeh’s right let moving to curl around Alard’s matching leg’s ankle, her leg tugging his forward, throwing him off balance.

He stumbled, falling to the ground, the knee of his other leg halting such an action, hitting the wooden floor with a thick muffled _thud._ There was only a breath’s moment of a gasp from Alard as Nevaeh’s other hand moved, the length of one of the sword ends being moved to dip underneath the man’s chin, forcing his head skyward, to meet the General’s gaze. The sword’s end stayed stationed at Alard’s neck, far too close to his skin that if he so much as swallowed wrong: it would be endgame for him. So he stayed still where he was now positioned upon one knee, chin tilted towards the roof, and his hand being pushed in an angle an arm shouldn’t be pushed in.

“Unfortunate for _you_ ,” Nevaeh mocked his previous words, a false coo to her words, anger grinding against them, the twilight limelight of the tavern setting ablaze to her contorting visage, truly setting fire to her demeanor, “I don’t care what people like you think. It won’t magically poof my title away. So continue then, all bark with no bite, whilst my men and I enjoy a drink. And keep your hands to yourself, because next time my sword won’t be as kind.”

The General scoffed as she released the man, head gently shaking a bit as she gestured for the Cintran soldiers to follow her. She passed Geralt’s side as she seemingly was making a beeline towards the back of the tavern. No one else would’ve heard it, but Geralt could pick up upon the disgusted muttering of “Fucking _men_ ,” and the sigh that cushioned it coming from Nevaeh as she passed.

Everyone glanced between themselves for a silent moment, Alard staying kneeled upon the ground before some of his companions moved to scoop him to his feet, ushering him - not without glares - towards the door. Upon their exit a bit of chatter, albeit nervous, rose once more, everyone slowly melting back to what they had been doing previously. Though a few still nervously eyed the Witcher and now the Cintran soldiers, no one else stepped forward to make a remark.

“Well that went, _swimmingly_ ,” Jaskier commented with a bit of a nervous laugh, his gaze warily eyeing the patrons before glancing to Geralt. “Geralt, are you alright?” The bard asked as he gently maneuvered out of his shield of soldiers.

Geralt turned to him, studying his visage a moment before nodding. “Not worse for wear besides a few scuffs to my pride,” a gravelly, yet humorless, laugh sounded from the back of his throat. Despite his words Geralt couldn’t help crane his head a bit, his peripheral landing upon Nevaeh, who had already seated herself at one of the empty back tables.

“And you?” Geralt directed his attention back to Jaskier as their gazes met again. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier scoffed lightly at his question, a smile breaking out upon his lips. “ Never been better. You know, the tension in the room is a _perfect_ set-up for some music. Tension really brings out the raw emotional power of people,” Jaskier nodded, mostly to himself, “I do think this calls for my charm.”

There was a bit of hesitancy in Jaskier’s movements, as if he wasn’t sure he was confident in his following motions. The milliseconds felt like he had made a big decision, one that would ensure a change, and he had to decide to which end the action would fall. Hands nervously kneaded at the lute’s strap, hands grasping it as he tugged the instrument frontal to rest upon his chest.

But, finally, Jaskier raised his attention back to the Witcher, and gave him a wink, fingers upon his lute as he moved to pass the Witcher.

**++++**

  
  


“A _Noonwraith?”_ Jaskier questioned with a surefire tilt of his head, brows furrowing into deeply indented worry. Oceanic hues swept across the expanse of the cabin as if the ghoul would suddenly jump from one of the shattered windows or step out from behind a vine. The hand upon the woman’s journal tightened, her thoughts swirling through his mind, the eerie voice attached to it in his consciousness whispering to him, as if she was right there.

Jaskier shuddered a bit, body trembling in recoil as he felt the icy spindles of tendrils down his spine.

Geralt glanced around before moving to close the distance between himself and Jaskier, looking for more clues on Jaskier’s side of the cabin. Not to mention be closer to the bard; it seemed he was getting a bit spooked and could use the company.

Though, Geralt didn’t make any verbal points to Jaskier’s demeanor.

“Afraid so. Though, it would explain why the townspeople didn’t want to plant here despite the rich and plentiful soil. They typically appear at noon, when the sun reaches its peak.” Geralt looked through a few of the chests that were lining the cabin’s walls, gloved digits searching through the items.

“So what do we do?” Jaskier watched, fingers idly drumming upon the back of the journal’s cover. His foot tapped absently against the cabin’s floorboards, chest heaving a bit with deepened breaths.

“We head back to town, and rest for the night, then come back tomorrow to see if we can expel it. I should make a few potions to help with the fight. Can’t be too prepared, and besides, anger can be a hell of a fuel.” His words were gruff, grunted as he closed the lid on the top most chest as it gave a high pitched shrieking squeal in protest, a sigh withering from his chest as he glanced to Jaskier.

“I wonder why no one noticed this, or said anything,” Jaskier replies, brows furrowing as he once again glanced over the expanse of the cabin. The contemplation was noticeable on his features as he mulled it over, confusion settling like drying resin across his countenance. “You’d think if they wanted to plant here, even without a Noonwraith, they would’ve noticed this cabin. Or someone knew the couple staying here and wondered where she had left. _Something_ , you know?” His words were bewildered, a hint of disappointment in them.

“Maybe they did. We don’t know the story besides what’s in that journal and the bits and pieces of a trail and garments here. Should question some of the residents once we get back,” Geralt nodded to Jaskier’s words, “It should give us a bit of a better clue who we’re dealing with, and why everyone suddenly went MIA here. Bring some closure.”

_Not to mention, expose the townspeople for their wrongdoings._

_Bring justice and peace to the fallen bride-to-be._

_She deserves peace_.

“Right. We should head back now then. Do we need to pick up any ingredients for your potions?” Jaskier asked, setting the journal back to where he had picked it up. He debated for a moment about keeping it, analyzing the contents of it - if only for a better understanding of the ghoul they were dealing with -, but he’d rather be respectful to the woman.

She may be a ghoul that they were going to _fight_ upon noontime the following day, but she had still been human, still someone who had lived, and died tragically.

Geralt thought for a moment with a gravelly hum, head shaking in the following beat. “Nothing I can think of. Worst comes to worst, it’ll give us a solid incentive if someone questions why we’re asking about.”

Inclining his head, Jaskier agreed. Fingers sat upon the corner edge of the magnolia chipped table as he steadied his rocking physique, his gaze still settled upon the Witcher. “Well then, it seems we have a ghoul to fight, huh?”

*****

Even in the dead of night, it didn’t stop the eeriness of the town from settling upon a passerby’s mind, settling upon the consciousness like a soft settling of bones upon loosely packed earth. The town was quiet, most everyone either sleeping or doing late work, quietly stowed away in backyards or fenced off places. No one seemed to notice or pay the Witcher and bard any notice, the residents moving like ghosts, quiet upon their tasks. The moon shone down upon the town like a ghastly spotlight, illuminating the tops of homes and businesses, highlighting blazing fires , dusting the scattered and sparse trees light a ethereal snow. With most of the buildings’ outside torches unlit, the absence of pockets of chattering from earlier in the day, it all seemed like a ghost town.

Even on Roach’s back, and situated behind Geralt - who didn’t seem all that bothered or fazed - , Jaskier felt uneasy. His fingers fiddled with his lute, gently plucking a few strings into a chiming melody; anything to at least lighten the air, to distract himself and his restless limbs.

“How do you travel at night like this? I fear I’d surefire suffer a heart attack in the woods and be left for dead,” Jaskier comments as Roach trots gently through the town’s entrance, more and more houses coming into view upon the beaten path, the rhythmic beat of the mare’s hooves acting like a baseline beat for Jaskier’s makeshift notes.

“When you’re not afraid of what goes bump in the night, time loses a bit of its safety net meaning,” Geralt replies, head tilting a bit back to look at Jaskier. “But you’re with me. I won’t throw you to the wolves. Or ghouls.”

“You say that now—,” the bard tapers off, words stretching out and lingering upon his palate, the twinge of a long winded tease to them.

“I won’t, Jaskier. Because then who would sing such glorious tales of a white haired Witcher?” 

Jaskier snorts at that, giving an exaggerated roll of his eyes. A hand raises, the back of his palm landing delicately upon his forehead, fingertips fluttering is distress. “Oh no! What _ever_ will the great White Wolf do without his humble bard best friend besides crash and burn?”

“It’ll be the biggest defeat in history,” Geralt continues upon the feigned somber tale, shaking his head to and fro for a few paces. “The whole continent will mourn such demise.”

“They’ll erect monuments and statues in my name, weave songs and ballads for the great _Jaskier_!” His words become loud in the night air, his head tilting back at a dramatic angle, the streaming moonlight hitting his complexion just right, allowing for Jaskier to be seemingly made of porcelain. His plush lashes flutter, like wings of a butterfly, or silk through sleepy digits.

“We’ll remember you in the immortal verse of a song, forever being sung by Witchers and bards alike to come.” Geralt concludes, his head turning back to front facing as he steers Roach to a post.

“Immortal verse,” Jaskier repeats, his voice a bit softer spoken, lingering upon the spoken words of the Witcher. He felt his heart flutter a bit, his mind docking the words away under ‘Things to remember what Geralt has said’, his fingers moving to brush across the area above his chest where his hiccuping heart lays, before landing upon his lute, giving a few final fluttering plucks.

Geralt, already dismounted from the mare, looks to Jaskier. “We’ve yet to encounter the Noonwraith and you already look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Jaskier. Despite our earlier conversation, do employ trust in me that I _will_ keep you safe. It’s like keeping Roach safe: no one gets hurt or left behind.

The more Geralt spoke, the more fluttering the beats of Jaskier’s heart took, thrumming erratically against the ribbed castle of his chest, forcing him to take a deep inhale to try and combat it. To swallow whatever was welling in his chest, and in his heart. His limbs felt gangly then, very long and boneless. He felt dizzy.

“I’m fine I’m fine!,” he reassures the Witcher with a breathless snort, hand raising as he waves it, moving to dismount himself from the back of Roach, giving the mare a few endearing pets after the fact, adjusting his lute with his free hand.

Geralt simply raises a brow at the other’s response, incredulousness peeking out from the shadowed indentations of his visage. “If you say so, oh mighty bard.”

His hand raises in defeat, not wanting to press further upon Jaskier’s actions. He didn’t want to seem like he was analyzing the bard, or being cynical. It was merely a spark of worry, though something told Geralt that he shouldn’t be. 

That this, whatever _this_ was, was something different. 

Jaskier didn’t tend to act like this in front of other people, their quipping moments special to the Witcher. 

_Perhaps, moments like these make the bad days worth it._

_Makes things less lonely._

He swallowed thickly for a moment, pushing down the full stop halt of his heart, which rose to his throat.

“Come on **Songbird** , we should get some supplies gathered and checked before heading out to question our esteemed and guilty townsfolk.”


End file.
